Second Chance (21 page)

“Didier Ludot. It's vintage Dior couture, from the sixties. It barely covers my ass.”

“Good. I hope he got a good look, and feels as sick as you do, over what he gave up.” As he said it, Fiona looked surprised.

“I thought you thought it was all my fault, because of the compromises and adjustments I didn't make.”

“I never said that,” Adrian corrected her, and she looked incensed.

“Yes, you did.”

“I'm your friend, Fiona. I tell you when I think you're wrong. That's what friends do. I'm always honest with you. So I told you I thought you should adjust to him. But I think he is a chickenshit sonofabitch for throwing in the towel and walking out in a matter of months. You should have done a lot of things differently, and could have if you wanted to, like empty your closets for him, and keep the chaos to a minimum. But he should have kicked his kids’ asses, fired his housekeeper, and killed his dog, and stuck with the greatest woman that ever lived. He was a damn fool.” Fiona looked stunned and pleased. He had never told her how sorry he felt for her, or how angry he was at John. She had been in such bad shape, he had tried to underplay the damage to her, and minimize it, so she would have the guts to get back on her feet. He had always feared that too much sympathy would give her permission to fall apart and stay that way. Instead, she pulled herself together remarkably.

“You really think so?” She felt vindicated finally, and wished he had told her before. His respect made a huge difference to her, as much as his empathy.

“Of course I do. You weren't the only one to blame. You were silly, and even stupid at times, and you should have given me Jamal then. A guy like John can't deal with eccentric bullshit like that. You needed to be less Holly Golightly and more Audrey Hepburn, and you look like her in that dress by the way.” He could afford to be honest with her now. She was fine. Better than fine. She was great, even if the wounds still hurt. But she had survived.

“Which one do I look like?” she teased, but she liked what he had just said.

“Miss Hepburn, of course.”

“I always thought that you thought it was all my fault.”

“Of course not. He damn near destroyed your life, for chrissake. First he talks you into marrying him, and then he dumps you, because you have a crazy house man, too many clothes in your closets, and his kids are two raving bitches. A lot of that, maybe even most of it, wasn't your fault. I think you were just too much for him, Fiona. You scared him to death.” They both knew that was true.

“Yeah, I think I did. And he made a deal with his girls.”

“That sucks. You can't let kids blackmail you into giving up someone you love. He fell in love with who you are, in all your glory, and then he ran like a scared rabbit because you weren't Heidi. Please. The guy has no balls.” Adrian looked annoyed, and Fiona laughed.

“I guess that tells it like it is.” He was making this chance meeting with John much easier for her. And she was looking more relaxed by the minute. She was almost glowing. And John saw it. Or at least Adrian hoped so.

“He should have stuck it out and worked it out. Speaking of which, now that you're about to become a famous author, what are you going to do about your life?”

“What life?” She looked blank. She had almost forgotten that John was sitting two tables away with the WASP of his dreams.

“That's exactly my point. You don't have a life. You're too young to give it all up. Look at you, you're the best-looking woman in this restaurant. You don't need to be the editor of
Chic
magazine to have a life. You have to start getting out.”

“You mean like dating? No way.” She looked horrified at the thought.

“Don't give me that,” Adrian scolded her. “You need to meet people in Paris. Go to dinner. Have lunch. Never mind dating, if you're not ready. But for chrissake, once in a while at least, leave your house.”

“Why? I'm happy writing.” And she was about to start another book.

“You're wasting your life, and you'll be sorry when you get old. You're not going to look like that forever. Go out and have some fun. Otherwise, why live in Paris?”

“I can smoke.”

“I'm going to come over and drag you out, if you don't do something about it soon. You're becoming a recluse.”

“No, I already am one,” she said, looking confident and incredibly glamorous. There was something about Fiona that no other woman had, and from where he sat two tables away, John had seen it too. She had guts, panache, and style, along with looks that took his breath away. And Elizabeth Williams was not pleased. John had been trying not to look at Fiona since she sat down, but her pull was more powerful than he was, he kept glancing at her. She looked like she was having a terrific time. She had never looked at him once since she sat down.

“You never told me she was that beautiful,” Elizabeth said plaintively, “and so young. I thought you said she was in her forties.”

“She is. She just looks good for her age. Looking good is her business. She runs a fashion magazine, or she used to.” He had always wondered why she quit. He had heard rumors of health problems, and had no idea if it was true. She looked healthy enough to him. He wondered if she just got bored with her job. The coincidence of timing had never occurred to him. Sometimes men just weren't very smart about things like that. It never dawned on John that she had quit her job because of him.

“She's a very pretty girl,” Elizabeth conceded through clenched teeth, and then went on to complain about all the problems she was having with the Junior League fashion show. Anyone but Elizabeth would have realized that John looked bored. She loved to hear herself talk.

Much to Fiona's relief, as the food she and Adrian had ordered was set down in front of them, John paid for the dinner he and Elizabeth had eaten, and without looking at her, they got up and left. It was only once they were on the sidewalk, trying to decide whether to go to her place or his, that he glanced back into the restaurant through the open picture windows and saw Fiona laughing and talking to Adrian. And just as Adrian had, he noticed the striking resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. His eyes were riveted to her, but Elizabeth didn't notice. She was complaining about her twenty-year-old daughter and fourteen-year-old son. She was a widow, and had been nagging John to spend time with them, and he was hesitant to do so. He didn't want to mislead her kids, and he was not yet sure how committed he was to their mother. It had taken him time to get over Fiona. And he was sure he had. Until tonight. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, and how just seeing her could turn him upside down. Without meaning to, or knowing it, she was doing it to him again.

“You're not listening to me,” Elizabeth complained, as John dragged his attention back to her. “You haven't listened to me all night.” He hadn't heard a word she said since Fiona walked into the restaurant.

“I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

“I said, why don't we go to your place? My kids are at mine.”

“I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I've had an incredible headache all day. Would you mind terribly if I drop you off at home?” He wanted to go home and be alone with his thoughts. He wasn't in the mood to make love to her tonight. Sometimes just being with her was an incredible drain. And there wasn't anything she could say about it if he wasn't feeling well. She couldn't insist that he take her to bed. He dropped her off at her place a few minutes later, and went back to his own apartment in a cab.

Fiona and Adrian were finishing dinner by then, and they went back to his apartment, and talked about Andrew Page. She couldn't wait to hear how his lunch with the editor went the next day. If nothing else, thinking about her book kept her mind off John.

Chapter 14

Fiona signed the contract
with Andrew Page the next day, and in the late afternoon he called her on her cell phone. The lunch had gone well, and the editor had agreed to read her book. She'd been excited about it when Andrew described it to her, and she was impressed that Fiona was the author. She knew who she was. She thought Fiona would be fabulous to publicize a book, and there was no question that that was part of the package they had to sell. Looks and style weren't everything, but they certainly helped.

By the end of the week, Fiona had accomplished all she'd gone to New York to do. She had sold her house, spent time with Adrian, found an agent, and a major publishing house was considering her book. Andrew had sent the manuscript to the editor the next day. Fiona had even run into John. It hadn't been easy for her, but she had dealt with it. It was bound to happen one day. She wasn't entirely over him, but she had made progress and was on her way. Now she was anxious to get back to Paris and start her new book. She was going to do some more work on the outline on the plane.

Adrian had promised to spend Christmas in Paris with her that year. And when she went back she was going to make a serious effort to find a house she could buy. Fiona had left her things in storage in New York, but she was getting anxious to see them again. The apartment she was in suited her, but she wanted something permanent. Fiona knew for sure now that she was not moving back to New York. It was hard to believe she had been gone a year. And she was relieved to find that she no longer missed her job. She had at first, but she was feeling encouraged about her writing. It was fulfilling a dream for her. Even though other dreams had died.

Within a week of her return, Fiona had seen two houses she didn't like, and started her new book. She was off and running, and by Thanksgiving, she had made a good start. They had heard from the editor by then, who had declined her book. She felt it was too serious for them, and somewhat cumbersome. But Andrew wasn't discouraged, and told her not to be. He had already sent it to someone else.

On Thanksgiving morning, Adrian called. He was up at five A.M., starting to stuff and cook his turkeys. He was having thirty people over for dinner, and said he was going insane.

“I feel like a gynecologist. I just stuffed five birds.”

“You're disgusting.” She laughed at him.

“And what are you doing today?”

“Nothing. It isn't a holiday here. I'm working on my book.”

“That's sacrilegious,” he chided her. “Then what are you grateful for?” It was a good question, and good to be reminded that she had much to be grateful for, even if things hadn't worked out as she'd planned.

“You,” she said without hesitating. “And my work.” She was grateful that she had finished one book and started a second.

“And that's it? That's a pathetic list.”

“It's enough,” she said peacefully. She still hadn't done anything about her social life, and she didn't really care. “I can't wait to see you in a few weeks,” she said happily. He was coming over for Christmas, and they were busy making plans. He was going to stay with her, as she had with him in New York. He was going to stay in her guest room, and they had agreed to go to Chartres, since he'd never been. And he'd be back again in January for the haute couture. She loved knowing she was going to see him twice in the next two months. He was still the best friend she had.

She wished him luck with his dinner, wished him a Happy Thanksgiving, got nostalgic for a minute, and then reminded herself that there was no point. She had better things to do than feel sorry for herself, although she felt homesick when she thought of the dinner he was giving and wished she could be there.

She had just started writing again, when the telephone rang. She thought it might be Adrian again, asking her advice about his birds. It was rare for anyone to call her, sometimes she didn't speak to anyone for days. And she had spoken to Andrew Page the day before. No one other than Andrew and Adrian ever called her, and her agent wouldn't call her on Thanksgiving.

“Why are you calling me? I can't cook,” she said, expecting to hear Adrian's voice, and was startled when it wasn't. It was a familiar voice, but she couldn't place it for a moment. And then her heart gave a lurch as she did. It was John.

“That's quite an admission. The truth comes out. You always told me you could.”

“Sorry,” she said skittishly, “I thought it was Adrian. He's cooking Thanksgiving dinner in New York.” She had no idea where John was calling her from, and wasn't sure she cared. She did, of course, but she wasn't going to let herself care anymore. She had promised herself that again in New York. It was strange that he had called. He had never called her since he left. All their communications, what there were of them, had been through their lawyers. She lapsed into silence while she waited to hear why he'd called.

“I was just doing some business in London, and I stopped in Paris on the way home,” he explained. “I just had a crazy thought. It's Thanksgiving, and I wondered if you wanted to have lunch or dinner with me at Le Voltaire.” He knew it was her favorite restaurant, and he had liked it too when they'd been there together. He sounded awkward as he asked. And there was a long, long pause at her end of the phone.

“Why?” She said the single word. What was the point?

“Old times’ sake, or something like that. Maybe we can be friends.” But she didn't want to be his friend. She had been in love with him, and still was. She knew that when she saw him in New York. And he had found a woman who looked just like Ann.

“I'm not sure I need a friend,” Fiona said bluntly. “I don't know how these things work. I've never been divorced before. I'm an amateur at all this. Are we supposed to be friends?”

“If we want to be,” he said cautiously, although he felt awkward answering her. “I'd like to be your friend, Fiona. I thought what we had was special. It just didn't work out.” Apparently not, since he had left her in less than six months and he was still trying to justify it to her. She remembered what Adrian had said, that he thought it was lousy of him to walk out on her, and it hadn't all been her fault. She had felt better about herself after Adrian said it.

“I'm not mad at you,” she said honestly. “I think I'm just hurt.” Very, very, very hurt. It was a mild understatement. In the early months, she had thought about whether she could go on living, instead she had quit her job, given up her career, and her house, and moved to Paris. Hurt didn't even begin to describe it. But in the end, things had worked out. She had a new career, and with luck, she would sell a book.